from the Sick Society to care for those in need. We are looking out for the cholera.”
“Da does not believe in the cholera,” says Pink raising her chin defiantly. “He says it’s the Government’s way of murdering the poor.”
Audrey is taken aback by the girl’s answer. How can a rational man not believe in a disease that’s killed millions?
“I’m afraid your Da is mistaken,” she says gently. “The cholera has been coming from around the world. We’ve been reading about it for months in the newspapers.”
“Da says other Governments are also killing their poor. It’s where our Government got the idea.”
“Sweetheart,” Audrey says, shaking her head. “Your government doesn’t want you dead. They’ve established a Quarantine to keep you safe.”
“Da says the Quarantine is to starve us so that their Cholera Morbus can kill us the quicker.”
Audrey would like to wring Pink’s Da’s neck for all the lies he’s telling this poor child. Instead she tries a different tactic.
“Well, I have some lovely blankets and stockings here I would certainly love to give away,” she says. “I would love to give a lovely blanket to you, Pink. But first I must see if anyone sick needs them. Is anyone sick in your house?”
“Only Eos,” Pink answers, looking longingly at Audrey’s stack. “We call her Fos because she has the Fossy Jaw.”
“May I see her?” Audrey asks, gathering up her blankets and stockings.
Pink lights a tallow candle in the fireplace and dully leads the way to the stairs. She gives a quick glance over her shoulder to Mrs. Eyeball, just to make sure she is doing the right thing taking this charity lady up to see Fos. The Eye watches them mount the stairs but does not stir from beneath the dress.
Twelve creaking steps take them up to the low room where the boarders sleep, a room in far worse shape than Audrey might have imagined judging by the fairly tidy first floor. It is noon outside, but midnight here, or 4 A.M. or 6 for all she can tell. The windows are boarded up, allowing in no light or fresh air. The walls are grimed brown and scattershot with the blood of crushed bugs. When she moves, Audrey’s neat boots crunch infested hay underfoot, the mattresses of Whilky Robinson’s thirty boarders, though some, unable to afford the 4 d. he charges per pitchforkful, sleep only on their spread-out coats. From experience Audrey knows that men and women lie indiscriminately up here, head to foot and back to back. The pregnancy rate among female lodgers tells you what sort of night’s sleep they get.
“You can see her better without this,” says Pink. With a quick puff, the little girl blows out the candle. An oppressive darkness swallows the room, hot and close and reeking offish-infused urine. Something scurries over Audrey’s foot and she stifles a scream.
“Over there,” says Pink.
In the far corner of the room, low to the ground, Audrey can make out a faint glow. At first she thinks she is imagining it, but no, there is a green tinge to the darkness in the corner, like the faraway lights of the aurora borealis.
“That’s Fos,” Pink tells her proudly, “She glows in the dark.”
Audrey quickly makes her way over to the effulgent creature in the corner, and reaches into her pocket for the packet of friction matches she keeps there. By the light of the match, she sees lying upon a bale of straw a narrow-faced woman, breathing shallowly, her eyes screwed up against the pain of even that dim flame, The right side of her face around her mouth is strangely sunken, as if she had just sucked the sourest lemon and couldn’t quite release the pucker.
“Fos paints phosphorus on matchsticks,” Pink explains. “Now she’s got the Fossy Jaw. Da says soon it will be eaten clean away.”
My God, thinks Audrey. And they call this poor woman by the disease that is killing her? She takes a blanket from her stack and lays it over the suffering matchstick
“Da does not believe in the cholera,” says Pink raising her chin defiantly. “He says it’s the Government’s way of murdering the poor.”
Audrey is taken aback by the girl’s answer. How can a rational man not believe in a disease that’s killed millions?
“I’m afraid your Da is mistaken,” she says gently. “The cholera has been coming from around the world. We’ve been reading about it for months in the newspapers.”
“Da says other Governments are also killing their poor. It’s where our Government got the idea.”
“Sweetheart,” Audrey says, shaking her head. “Your government doesn’t want you dead. They’ve established a Quarantine to keep you safe.”
“Da says the Quarantine is to starve us so that their Cholera Morbus can kill us the quicker.”
Audrey would like to wring Pink’s Da’s neck for all the lies he’s telling this poor child. Instead she tries a different tactic.
“Well, I have some lovely blankets and stockings here I would certainly love to give away,” she says. “I would love to give a lovely blanket to you, Pink. But first I must see if anyone sick needs them. Is anyone sick in your house?”
“Only Eos,” Pink answers, looking longingly at Audrey’s stack. “We call her Fos because she has the Fossy Jaw.”
“May I see her?” Audrey asks, gathering up her blankets and stockings.
Pink lights a tallow candle in the fireplace and dully leads the way to the stairs. She gives a quick glance over her shoulder to Mrs. Eyeball, just to make sure she is doing the right thing taking this charity lady up to see Fos. The Eye watches them mount the stairs but does not stir from beneath the dress.
Twelve creaking steps take them up to the low room where the boarders sleep, a room in far worse shape than Audrey might have imagined judging by the fairly tidy first floor. It is noon outside, but midnight here, or 4 A.M. or 6 for all she can tell. The windows are boarded up, allowing in no light or fresh air. The walls are grimed brown and scattershot with the blood of crushed bugs. When she moves, Audrey’s neat boots crunch infested hay underfoot, the mattresses of Whilky Robinson’s thirty boarders, though some, unable to afford the 4 d. he charges per pitchforkful, sleep only on their spread-out coats. From experience Audrey knows that men and women lie indiscriminately up here, head to foot and back to back. The pregnancy rate among female lodgers tells you what sort of night’s sleep they get.
“You can see her better without this,” says Pink. With a quick puff, the little girl blows out the candle. An oppressive darkness swallows the room, hot and close and reeking offish-infused urine. Something scurries over Audrey’s foot and she stifles a scream.
“Over there,” says Pink.
In the far corner of the room, low to the ground, Audrey can make out a faint glow. At first she thinks she is imagining it, but no, there is a green tinge to the darkness in the corner, like the faraway lights of the aurora borealis.
“That’s Fos,” Pink tells her proudly, “She glows in the dark.”
Audrey quickly makes her way over to the effulgent creature in the corner, and reaches into her pocket for the packet of friction matches she keeps there. By the light of the match, she sees lying upon a bale of straw a narrow-faced woman, breathing shallowly, her eyes screwed up against the pain of even that dim flame, The right side of her face around her mouth is strangely sunken, as if she had just sucked the sourest lemon and couldn’t quite release the pucker.
“Fos paints phosphorus on matchsticks,” Pink explains. “Now she’s got the Fossy Jaw. Da says soon it will be eaten clean away.”
My God, thinks Audrey. And they call this poor woman by the disease that is killing her? She takes a blanket from her stack and lays it over the suffering matchstick
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